Me (7/26/2008 2:56:47 AM): Yes bibi
Lover (7/26/2008 2:58:28 AM): i love you duckie.
Lover (7/26/2008 2:58:34 AM): SOOO MUCH.
Lover (7/26/2008 2:58:38 AM): *something too cute and romantic to post*
Lover (7/26/2008 2:58:41 AM): *something too cute and romantic to post*
Lover (7/26/2008 2:59:50 AM): bayb?
Lover (7/26/2008 3:07:02 AM): bayb? did you pass out?
Lover (7/26/2008 4:06:43 AM): mai bibi’s so funneh

To be fair to me, it was a long day punctuated by 5 or 6 buckets of beer and the appropriate Friday-night-with-the-boys-and-girls food.

Hai, wine of the month.

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Lover: you know what’s gross about her
Helga: What lolz
Lover: it’s that her tummy sticks out farther than her boobs. I can’t live with that.
Helga: LMAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. What about when I get preggo. Well, I’ll have big boobies. But an even bigger tummy!
Lover: well, there’s a valid reason for that LOL. You’d be fuckin abnormal if your tummy didn’t get big
Helga: Hehehhe. I’d be starving the bibi
Lover: yeaz! Not good for my kid
Helga: I will eat only carrots and celery. So we’d have a baby wabbit who looks just like you
Lover: oh dear lord, please don’t make lihi on chikon PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE
Helga: WHY NOT CHICKON! WHY NOTTTTTTTTTTT
Lover: can you imagine me having to find on open kfc at 3am?
Helga: There are 24 hour KFCs here excuse meh
Lover: hehehe
Helga: I WILL MAKE LIHI ON CHICKON AND SUMTHING VERY HARD TO FIND. RED RIBBON BLACK FOREST CAKE
Lover: omg lulz. sige ka you’ll be a hungry womanz
Helga: So will your bibi. Sige ka your face.

I srsly need more laptop memory.

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Helga: Im a kitty!
Helga: http://www.flickr.com/photos/helga/
Roel: :))
Roel: boardedd?
Helga: I took pictures for Lover lol
Helga: Its how we keep the relationship alive
Helga: I pretend to be a cat
Helga: He pretends his girlfriend is normal

What I did today, instead of working on the five design plates due for my crash course on creative conceptualization tomorrow:

I don’t eat fishies or Whiskas, though. Meow.

(Yes yes, I know it looks like somebody came all over me. Dirty mirror shots = fail.)

Currently looking at Swatch watches.

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Helga: What do you think of this. I dunno. Vignettes of despair or something.
Helga: So. Two people chatting
Helga: Webcams on
Helga: And one person decides to hang himself/herself on cam.
Helga: And the other person cant do anything.
Helga: Awesome, huh?
Drew: hoy
Drew: chaka
Drew: and the other person decides to hang laundry
Drew: wet underwear
Helga: sa outtakes na yun

Now I go back to looking at tv stands.

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It’s definitely too colorful and there’s something about it that I don’t like that I can’t quite put my finger on. Like, the green links in the sidebar’s too blah and dead. Suggestions? Comments?

I liked the last one better (something about the dark brown and green that was…uh, soothing) but I missed having a sidebar.

Now that this is out of the way, I no longer have an excuse to keep putting off working on my final project for web animation class (which is a 30-second Flash web intro. I mean, COME ON!!! Splash pages and intros are so 2001). Will start working on that tomorrow, even though that means I’ll be lugging Veronica Mars around the metro again.

Anyhoots, this was the first header I made for this layout:

It kinda hurt not using the coffee vector that I spent close to an hour making, but ducks > coffee.

That’s all.

And I refuse to test this on IE.

PS: Does anyone know how I can go about moving my WordPress to my main domain? It’s currently on a ‘blog’ subdomain, but I want to change the URL (pronounced as ‘earl’, thanks to lover) to ditz-revolution.net. If that makes sense.

Edit//
I’ll be adding panties and more color to the sidebar, as Drew suggested that I make it more cartoon-y.

Drew: gawa ka cartoons ng mga panty na naguusap
Drew: hehehe or duckling na may tangaytangay na panty

Oh. And the comments colors. Totally slipped my mind.

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I’ve been up chatting with lover since 1am. I could use a cigarette, a mug of strong coffee, a line of coke, and maybe a cheap hooker…wait, no. But guess what? None of these exist or are allowed at my folks’!

Anyway.

(...)
Read the rest of CONVERSATIONS AT 5AM. (198 words)

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I swear you will.

(...)
Read the rest of MY HEART IS X-THOUSAND MILES AWAY. AND A SAP. (392 words)

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It’s been pointed out several times by lover that I am not normal (actually, not just not normal but far from normal) and that I should be taking steps towards normalcy. And I am working on that, and anyway, that’s not the point. The point is: at the risk of being laughed at or having your respect levels for me plummet to -19, I’d like to come clean and say that I. Have a thing. For armpits.

All along, I thought having an armpit fetish was an acceptable thing. Until today:

WEIRDING OUT SOMEONE WHO LIKES TALKING DIRTY TO HIS PENIS. :(
KILI-KILI = ARMPITS

This thing for armpits began some time ago when I saw a picture of Jerry Yan wearing a sleeveless top for a Pepsi endorsement. Instead of saying the usual “Patingin ng titi!” (trans: your penis, show me it), I got so…interested in his armpits and his armpit hair that I said “PATINGIN NG KILI-KILIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!” (trans: I could have sex with your ampits if you showed me it).

I never actively pursued my men’s armpits, though, and it wasn’t a non-negotiable when it came to whether or not this guy would make a qualified partner in bed. Truth be told, only two of my exes had armpits yummy enough that made me want to pitch a tent in them and live there forever. One of them was 6’3″ and the other used to fight— professionally. So to say, they had (uhhh) big and (uhhh) very accomodating armpits that doubled as a pillow because back then, all I had was a tiny single bed that could hardly fit two people.

(Dear Lover,

Love,
Helga)

Lover’s armpits are another story, though. They’re not big, they’re not very accomodating, and quite frankly, they’re a couple of snobs. But I have never EVER met a pair of sexier snobs in my life. It can be said that I’m nearing the state of being obsessed. Lover didn’t sleep over the other night and I woke up to a dream of him showing me his armpits. So imagine my disappointment when I opened my eyes, rolled to my side, and saw not a sexy hairy armpit waiting to be kissed or have my nose buried in it, but empty space. I almost cried.

Having an armpit fetish is a dangerous thing for someone who hardly has any sense of privacy or for someone who is lacking inhibitions, both of which can be said of me. It’s also mighty embarrassing for lover that I am or have all three. Several times it has happened that we’re in a public place and I automatically reach up his sleeve to tuck my hand into his armpit. It’s something I do out of habit and as sort of like a replacement for a kiss or a hug.

Of course, lover had to analyze the shit out of it and kill it for me by saying that showing affection for armpits in public is actually a gesture more intimate than a kiss; posing questions such as “would you greet your friend by touching their armpits?” and “would you kiss your friend’s armpits?”. The answers to both questions are an obvious no…although there was this one time that Aa was passed out and drunk in my bed and I had to move her and she wouldn’t budge, so I bit her armpit— that doesn’t count, though, because I did it out of necessity, not because I had the desire to.

I’m curious: is armpit-touching in public something you actually notice? I know that no one sane would consider it acceptable public behavior (same goes for loudly commenting on your partner’s ass— something that I, once again, am guilty of), but is it something that would grab your attention if you see strangers doing it?

Helga: I’m blogging about your armpits.
Lover: You’re kidding me.
Helga: Nope. Lol.
Lover: Aww baaaaayb, lol.
Helga: They’re so sexy kasi eh hmp.
Lover: Fine. I’ll blog about your singit.

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It’s generally not a good idea for me to have crushes on people who are physically within my reach and whom I come into contact with on a daily basis, if only because I’m a ding-a-ling who has the scandalous habit of acting upon my crushes. My theory is that it comes with my age and that when I eventually mature, I’ll (finally) develop a sense of inhibition. At least I’m crossing my fingers that I will. Maybe when I’m 22.

Which reminds me: why is there nothing monumental or defining about turning 22? It’s just like turning 8 or 14 and very much unlike turning, say, 1 (because it means I managed to not annoy my parents for 12 months, so they decided not to smother me in my sleep or to leave me in a basket outside some rich spinster’s doorstep who actually hates children and will probably do something horrible to me. Like feed me to mice or give me to the manong mambobote); or 18 (when my folks were more than happy to serve my debutante-ness upon a fluffy pink and silver platter, begging not-necessarily-eligible bachelors to whisk me off to a life of domesticity. There were no takers, though, and I blamed it on the fact that I knew jackshit about doing the laundry, making sammiches or shining black leather shoes back then. So I proceeded to skill myself in those areas of housewifery, and also, to give good head).

So I don’t know, maybe I’ll make something out of turning 22. Something that isn’t asinine or sarcastic, like most of my goals are (my 2007 Game Plan is one exception— I’m dead serious about that). One thing’s for sure: I’d like to have more Me Time this coming year. Or no, not Me Time, since I get enough of that during my daily commute to and from work; just more Quiet Time. I’d like to not find myself in a tizzy come the weekend.

Or maybe what I need is More Time. Okay, so that brings my wishlist to include two things: A Tan and More Time. Also, the complete Nancy Sinatra collection, please. There, three.

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Maybe not gay. Just… not cool. Enough.

This is Mikey licking his monies:

This is Bim trying to reach for his nipple:

This is Ade. He’s pogi.

Shoot, wrong pic! NOT ADE, NOT ADE! This is Ade:

Poker Night photos here, here, and here.

Also, I injured myself again, accidentally kneeling on a headband while taking photos. Nasty, I know. Plus, the scab on my right knee is starting to peel, and I know that wounds are nothing new to me since I am one of the clumsiest drunks alive, but— am I supposed to just let it be? Answer, so I know whether or not I can take off the scotch tape that I’m using to keep the scab intact.

SO ANYWAY! We have a new Furby. This is Drew trying to look like Teddy Bear Mislang, and succeeding.

This is me drinking AGAIN and in my Kylie-esque hoodie, Sunday morning.

I’ve had The Work of Director Mark Romanek on repeat since after PBB last night up until this morning (while having my seemingly standard three mugs of coffee with my crossword puzzles), so I decided to channel a little bit of Fiona Apple— ratty underwear, but with a little lot more meat. Argh. Another week, another shot at anorexia.

This is just too cute:

I’m aware that my entries of late have all been picture posts with some text thrown in. Fuck you all, that’s how much fun I’ve been having.

(And that’s how fried my brain is. Alcohol + travel industry + not enough sleep + reading up on home insurance quote + eating once a week— okay, okay, so maybe thrice a week = not good. Hand me the brain candy.)

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